


Common Sense (of Humor)

by sandwichtree



Category: Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: 5 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwichtree/pseuds/sandwichtree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Dick tried to make Damian laugh and failed more spectacularly than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Sense (of Humor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rambutans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambutans/gifts).
  * Translation into Français available: [Common sense of humor TRADUCTION](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930424) by [Sayuria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sayuria/pseuds/Sayuria)



> Hm, so this takes place in a nebulous universe wherein I am God and I have included whatever elements from pre and post 52 universe Dick and Damian that I choose to care about. I essentially just do whatever I want. I'm mad with power. It's fine.
> 
> Their age difference is like 8-9 years because that's what I've decided and you can suck it. By the end Damian is about 20-22.
> 
> WARNING: There's depictions of animals performing/being held in conditions at Haley's Circus that are abusive and inhumane in real life. In this fictional universe the animals are cool with it, but please don't support circuses with exotic animals IRL.

**ONE.**

Damian finds the notecards in his utility belt when he goes for a birdarang to chuck at Grayson's head in response to a particularly idiotic remark regarding his relationship with Batgirl.

Grayson grins at him.

Damian glances quickly across the rooftop for signs of foul play and then makes a face at Grayson when he finds none.

The first notecard reads as follows:

**Joker: whilst attacking him and not laughing at his jokes: "Tough crowd."  
after putting him in prison: "You'll be here all week."**

There’s more. Damian frowns at the cardstock and flips through some more cards to find additional such categories on the following cards.

**Professor Pyg: after he sustains major flesh wound: "The other white meat."  
_"This_ doesn't look kosher." etc.**

Grayson smiles even wider, which looks completely ridiculous in the cowl, black cape draped menacingly over his shoulders, lean and dangerous in the glow of Gotham's nighttime lightscape.

**Catwoman: "Me-OW!" after she gets hurt. Ha!**

Damian glares. "These are jokes. You’ve hidden a list of jokes in my utility belt."

Grayson laughs and touches his own face in a vain gesture that doesn't suit Batman by any stretch of the imagination. "Well, as you know," he says, "clever jokes are part of the Robin legacy. I just thought, maybe...you could ease up on the thematic prop cruelty."

Damian's grip on the notecards tightens.

"Fewer straight-up death threats. Get more puns in the rotation. You know what I mean." Gesturing loosely in the direction of his gift, Grayson adds, "That's just a bit of a leg up. If I'd had choice remarks like that when I started out, let me tell you, I—"

"Grayson," Damian cuts him off.

"Huh?"

"You will regret this."

Uncertainly, Grayson says, "Nah..."

Damian looks down at the notecard clenched in his shaking fist.

 **Twoface: "Holy rhinoplasty, Batman!",** it taunts him.

He grapples down the side of the building without another word.

\----

 

The next morning, Grayson quite literally gets a taste of his own foolish idea when he discovers the ripped up remains of his joke cards mixed in with his favorite cereal.

Alfred and Damian chuckle together as Grayson splutters a piece of paper onto the kitchen counter. He hacks dramatically and rolls out of his chair to the floor.

Damian, who knows the true sound of death by asphyxiation, does not worry.

 

* * *

 

**TWO.**

On good days, Wayne manor is peaceful. Since Grayson left, it more often falls into the category of stagnant. However, as he considers the chubby face plastered across the oversize monitor of the Batcomputer, the terrible alternative rock blasting on the speakers, Grayson snickering over the keyboard, Damian begins to long for the quiet.

"Why are you showing me a picture of a baby?" he asks.

"Why are you whining about it?" Grayson counters.

Damian does not whine. "Who is the infant, Grayson. And what are you doing here?"

Grayson smiles in that way that he does, sometimes, when Damian especially feels like hurting him. He nods at the screen. "Doesn’t look familiar?"

No. The baby, wearing a frilled white lace christening gown, does not look familiar. Historically, babies displease Damian. They all seem to be of a similar elderly phenotype. The small puff of black hair and round pale eyes narrow it down to, oh, almost anyone Damian knows. To judge from the level of discoloration on the photograph and Grayson’s unbridled delight, however...

"This baby must be Father. Where did you get the photo?"

"It’s _Batman,_ " Grayson corrects. "Anyway I have my sources. Would you look at his little toesies?"

Damian observes the blushing baby in his luxurious bassinet. "His feet aren’t even visible. Am I meant to find this amusing?"

"You’re right," Grayson says with a happy sigh. "His toes are hidden under his tasteful white dress."

"Don’t you have an inane circus conflict somewhere to be wasting your time on?"

"It’s no wonder he fights so naturally in the cape."

"Why are you _here?_ "

Grayson’s smile drops several degrees in warmth. "What—I’m not allowed to visit my favorite partners in crime-fighting once in awhile?"

"Hilarious," Damian says, clicking a few keys on the computer to send the photo to his father’s office printer.

Grayson makes a small sad sound as the print confirmation window flashes on the screen. "Wait," he says.

"Come, Grayson." Damian smiles a poisonous smile. "Father is upstairs."

"I shared that picture with you in confidence!"

"Yes, and I am _confident_ that Father will appreciate its recovery."

"You..." Grayson sighs and runs his hands through his hair. "Seriously?"

Damian smiles violently. "You miscalculated."

\----

Damian miscalculated.

Bruce doesn’t find the picture embarrassing in the least. He puts his hand on Grayson’s shoulder, and his mouth softens into what could possibly be interpreted as a smile.

"A reminder of better times," he says warmly, looking down at the picture of his limp fat lump of an infant self, untested and unproven, couched in luxury.

Grayson’s grin is back. "Oh, you know, I do what I can." He winks at Damian.

Damian rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

**THREE.**

Grayson emerges from his bathroom in pajamas and with the front of his hair tied up in a haphazard topknot. "You sure you don’t want some sweats or something?"

"I’m not staying the night," says Damian.

"It’s already five in the morning, though."

"Tt. Your point?"

"It’s just—uh. Why are you staring at my hair?"

Damian pulls up the hood on his sweatshirt. "You look ridiculous."

Grayson puts his hands on his hips proudly. "This is my relaxed-at-home look, Damian. I look good. It’s cute." When he tosses his head, his little bun of hair wiggles atop it.

"I had forgotten that your home is a literal freakshow."

"Ah, you know what they say..." says Grayson, tugging Damian’s hood down over his eyes obnoxiously on his way around the sofa.

Damian snarls and smacks Grayson’s hand away.

"Home is where the heart is." Grayson drops down on the couch with a sideways smile that makes Damian ache yearningly to break his nose.

"Just start the movie. Isn’t that why I’m here?"

Grayson’s face lights up anew as he presses play. "Ah, yes," he expounds in a strange posh accent, "a cinematic masterpiece in its own right, this film will change the face of your life, if not the face of the _world_..."

Damian does not care to listen to the rest, but he manages not to say anything scathing in response, simply giving Grayson a blank look until he ceases to speak.

After all, he’s finally watching Grayson’s favorite meaningless and astonishingly non-comedic comedy-based adventure film. Grayson has been trying to cajole Damian into his apartment to do so for months, and after a long night of nostalgic and uneventful patrol together, here they are. This is the best day of Grayson’s life. Far be it from Damian Wayne to close such a narrow window of light on what he can only assume is an otherwise pathetic existence.

Grayson eventually does stop talking.

The much-needed quiet washes over the small, somewhat disorderly living room.

Damian is satisfied until he notices Grayson glancing at him after nearly every line of dialogue.

Damian would be willing to wager that he is checking for signs of laughter. He tries not to dwell on it.

But Grayson keeps looking.

Damian’s eyes resolutely lock on the screen. He has been trained since birth to excise all distractions from his mind, and as such, excels at it. He will win this fight.

He is positive of this until Grayson gives up all pretense of watching the movie and props his feet up on the couch to stare at Damian with his whole body.

Damian scowls and mirrors this posture aggressively. "Explain yourself at once, Grayson!" he demands, jabbing a finger.

"You don’t like it." He is...disappointed.

This isn’t good. Grayson will soon attempt to initiate conversation regarding the malevolent effects Damian’s childhood had on his sense of humor. And with that ridiculous hair...

Damian turns back towards the television in discomfort. "Perhaps it’s the generation gap," he suggests in what he thinks is a very diplomatic way, considering the corner he has been forced into, conversationally speaking.

"What?"

Damian shrugs.

"Generation what?"

"Maybe this film is not enjoyable to those of a younger—"

"There is no generation gap," Grayson cuts him off, eyes wide. "Because I’m not that old. How old do you think I am?"

Damian shrugs and fights a smirk. "Old enough for it to be conceivable that you could have a child in my age range..."

"No, stop. That’s not conceivable."

"You seem upset."

"I was not old enough to conceive a child when you born. I was like eight. I was _inconceivable._ "

"I don’t think that word means what you think it means." Damian feels like he might be smiling.

"No, don’t use my movie against me, Damian." Abruptly Grayson gets up. "It’s a blasphemy." He goes to the kitchen.

Dramatic.

Damian does not care.

A sword fight crops up in the movie, violent enough to be interesting.

It takes six minutes for the the action sequence to pass.

Following that, Damian counts his breaths in annoyance. At ninety-eight, he finally allows himself to take the hint and follow Grayson to the kitchen.

Dramatic.

In typical Grayson fashion, he stands by the stove framed in the pink light of dawn coming in through the window over the sink. He’s taken down his hair so that it frames his face tragically.

Honestly. Grayson. His hairstyle was more entertaining the movie by far.

Damian clears his throat.

Speaking of typical behavior, when Grayson looks up, it is with a smile.

He holds out one of the two cups in his hands. He’s already forgotten about having his feelings hurt. "I made tea," he says.

Damian's stomach turns over. Like always. It's not enough that Grayson was born strange; he has to pass it on to everyone he encounters. It's useless thinking this way.

"I liked the part where he said that men with masks can’t be trusted," Damian eventually says, accepting his cup with careful attention not to touch Grayson’s hand.

Grayson beams. "Aw."

"Are we going to finish watching it?"

"Of course!"

"This tea is unacceptable, Grayson."

"Peach flavor," Grayson says, downing his share easily.

Damian empties his own cup into the sink. He falls asleep during the climax of the movie and ends up staying the night after all.

 

* * *

 

 

**FOUR.**

Damian hasn’t seen Grayson in months, not since before his nineteenth birthday.

Grayson and Bruce are fighting about something they won’t disclose to Damian, which in the past has meant that the thing they are fighting about _is_ Damian. Grayson did not even bother to show up for the birthday party that Alfred insisted upon arranging, and Damian was pleased to discover that one cannot possibly be disappointed by something one expects.

He is less pleased to see a ragged and bloody Nightwing drag himself up over the edge of Damian’s favorite rooftop.

"Robin," he croaks, and then he collapses on the concrete.

Damian touches his ear as he rushes to Grayson’s side. "Batman. Request assistance at Kinsley and Prosper. Nightwing’s down."

There is a long pause before Bruce’s voice rumbles, "Acknowledged. Estimated time of arrival: five minutes." Another pause. "Is he..."

"He’s breathing," Damian says.

No response comes through the comm link.

Grayson may be breathing, but he is also bleeding from a laceration across the right side of his torso.

Damian feels inexplicably like he’s been punched in the gut as he pulls off his cape and presses it hard against the slowly gushing wound.

After a moment, Grayson makes a pitiful noise and curls away from the pressure.

"Nightwing, are you conscious?"

Grayson groans and squints up at Damian through his mask. "Damian?"

"No names in the field. Why didn’t you go straight to the Batcave?"

"Hn, ugh, that sounds like a good idea now that you mention it. Full disclosure: I think I may have been drugged." He huffs a labored laugh.

"Stop touching my leg."

Grayson laughs more as his fingers retreat down to Damian’s knee. "My judgement is impaired! I get a free pass."

Damian feels like he needs to start practicing his breathing exercises again. "If your ribs weren’t already broken, I promise you that I would break them now." And to punctuate this statement, he presses on said ribs a little harder than is strictly necessary.

Grayson squeezes his knee in response, giggling and gasping with the pain in one breath. The side of his face is bruised green, black and yellow. His lip is split.

"Stop laughing. You’ll make it worse," Damian says with forced steadiness. "The Batmobile will be here in approximately four minutes."

Grayson nods, placing his hands over Damian’s. "Good idea to stop the bleeding."

Damian scoffs. "I am extensively trained in more than ten styles of eastern medicine, training from which you could clearly benefit. What did you manage to do to yourself this time?"

"Oh, the usual," Grayson says creakily. "Had a run-in with a surprisingly tough gang of drug traffickers and their airplane’s propeller."

"Do you want me kill them for you?" Damian asks.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Grayson replies, blinking up at him in disbelief. "No, no, wait, I’ve got one. _Birdstrike._ "

"Was _that_ supposed to be a joke? I won’t deign to respond."

Grayson won’t stop laughing. "What about you, Robin, out patrolling on a Saturday night. No date?"

Damian rolls his eyes. "Abuse was busy, lucky for you. Now you won’t have to die cold and alone on this roof."

"Now I won’t have to break up your date and accidentally kill your boyfriend in my drug-induced stupor," Grayson corrects, adjusting his hold on Damian’s wrists. "I was tracking your frequency."

Damian doesn’t speak for several seconds. His brain is a radio between stations. Finally he says, "You couldn’t accidentally kill my boyfriend in this state."

"You never know. I can be pretty vicious. Like a..." Grayson pauses to breathe heavily and shift his weight. "Mother bear. Protecting her young."

"I won’t have to remind you that you are nothing like my mother."

"Course not. Have I ever told you about mine? Her name was—" Grayson laughs prematurely. "Graymom."

Damian hopes that Grayson can fully appreciate his disgusted look. He probably can’t. Perhaps no human’s dull senses could process the full extent of his disgust, not to mention the fact that Grayson’s have been further dulled by some form of psychoactive depressant.

It's a wonder than he can even hold a conversation in this state, but then Dick Grayson could probably engage in mindless banter if he were dead. Not that he will be. In the near future. Not if Damian has anything to say about it.

"I won’t kill your boyfriend," Grayson says dazedly. "I promise. I won’t even rough him up at all. He’s a nice guy. He's good for you."

Damian stares.

"Don’t look so freaked out..." Grayson murmurs. His eyes start to close. His hands go lax.

"Nightwing!" Damian shouts. He repeats himself louder, closer to Grayson’s face.

No response. Just shallow breathing.

Damian struggles to press his comm with his shoulder while still keeping pressure on Grayson’s wound. "Batman," he demands, "what is your ETA?"

The rumbling wind of the Batmobile picks up the corners of his clothing and rattles his bones in answer. "I’ve got eyes on you, Robin," Bruce says. "Can you move him?"

For the first time, Damian realizes that he's grown taller than Grayson. It hits him with a stunning clarity just how long it has been since they’ve seen each other.

"Yes," he says, hooking Grayson’s arm up around his neck. "But he’ll bleed."

"Better at the Cave than here," Bruce replies. In thirty seconds flat, he has landed the Batmobile on the roof and is shunting his broad shoulders under Grayson’s other arm.

The drag of Grayson’s feet on the concrete feels deafening, but then he wakes up again half way into the Batmobile and stumbles upright.

"Bruce is here!" he announces.

"No names in the field," says Bruce, tying Damian’s cape around Grayson’s torso tightly. "And don’t touch my son."

"He’s attempting to tickle me, Batman."

"This usually works," Grayson assures them, fruitlessly digging his hand into Damian’s side. "Kory would be loving this."

Bruce steps between them and deposits Grayson firmly into the backseat. "Sit still and apply pressure. Alfred is preparing for a tox screen at the Cave as we speak."

Grayson follows instructions but his face goes sour. "I just remembered I’m mad at you." He frowns for all of three seconds before he starts laughing again.

"Was he drugged with nitrous oxide? Honestly," Damian comments, propping his feet up on the dashboard. Then he puts them down again when it makes him feel ten years old. His knee bounces irritably.

"Nightwing will be fine," Bruce says, a bit too loud. He clears his throat. "The blood from his wound wasn’t enough to soak through your cape. His loss of consciousness is more likely an effect of the drugs."

Which Damian knew. Damian knows those facts, all of them, separately. He is trained in ten types of eastern medicine after all.

Grayson peels off his mask and slingshots it at Bruce.

Bruce frowns at the road and remains oblivious to the floppy piece of abandoned tech dangling from the left ear of the cowl.

Damian turns abruptly to the window.

"Are you alright, Robin?" Bruce asks.

Damian closes his eyes, fighting a smile. "Yes, Father."

" _Yes, Father,_ " Grayson imitates. Then he says, "Ow!" as Bruce hits his turn into the Batcave entrance a touch too hard.

 

* * *

 

 

**FIVE.**

"I thought this god forsaken thing was travelling," Damian says, examining the tents for structural weaknesses (of which there are eight.)

Grayson grins and tugs Damian toward the old-fashioned popcorn cart by the sleeve of his t-shirt. "Travelling means it's all the more special when it comes to town!"

The popcorn in the glass case looks only very slightly burnt, so Damian lets it pass without comment. He can not, however, abide the clown with crusted purple makeup who sells it. "Are we one hundred percent sure Joker hasn't been cloning mutated knockoffs of himself?"

Grayson shoots him a judging look and then says to the clown, "Hi, there. One medium popcorn, please."

The clown's purple face splits into a smile. "Coming right up, young man."

"Who's he calling young?" Damian wonders aloud, elbowing Grayson in the ribs.

Grayson catches his arm easily and leaves his hand there, warm against Damian's bare skin.

The clown looks between them as he shovels popcorn into a small red and white striped tub. The green face paint around his eyes crinkles in his skin folds. "It's buy-one-get-one free for couples."

Grayson's face lights up. "Hey, we're on our first date!"

This is news to Damian. His throat is suddenly very dry. He tries to catch Grayson's eye, but Grayson simply puts his arm across Damian's shoulders and continues beaming at the popcorn sales-clown as he pays half the money he should be paying.

Damian takes both shares of popcorn and nods to the clown in thanks.

This likely constitutes a crime. They are robbing a pathetic mutant Joker clone of his money under false pretenses. Batman will be grave and disappointed when he finds out.

Damian takes a breath to say as much.

"Free popcorn!" Grayson interrupts, playfully shaking Damian's shoulders until little puffs of popcorn spill out over the top of the buckets in his hands.

Damian frowns and removes himself from Grayson's grip, hitting him in the chest with one of the buckets. "Stop."

Grayson takes it with a grin. "Thanks. Don't be sour on such a joyful occasion."

He spends the next five minutes catching popcorn in his mouth despite self-imposed and increasingly convoluted obstacles as they make their way to their seats.

The circus is a wide huge ring of purples and yellows and greens, with lavish curtains but with dirt for a floor. The stands ripple with the movement of hundreds of spectators, laughing and chatting with their loved ones. A clown on a unicycle does laps to entertain the crowd until the real show begins.

"Think I could finish a triple flip and still catch one?" Grayson asks, slouching down in his chair and gesturing for Damian to throw more popcorn.

"Of course," Damian replies. "You were trained by my father. I would expect nothing less from someone in the same league as _Todd._ " He tosses up three popped kernels at once, two of which Grayson catches and one which he misses due to laughing. Damian learned long ago that barbs regarding Todd go over infinitely better than those directed at Drake. He's adjusted his repertoire accordingly.

The last popcorn kernel bounces off Grayson's nose and into the hair of a lady seated in the row in front of them.

"Condolences, you've reached his skill level," Damian says, smiling.

Grayson laughs even harder and then covers his mouth to chew.

Damian feels his face twist as their eye contact holds, and he all at once remembers the incident at the popcorn cart. "Grayson..." he begins.

But before he can say more, the lights dim, a percussion-heavy orchestral piece begins, and a man's booming voice goes, "WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO _LE CIRQUE DU HALY,_ " in the most obnoxiously _faux_ French accent Damian has heard in recent years. "ZIS EEZ 'ALY'S CIRCUS."

Damian rolls his eyes against his will, looking to Grayson to concur with his annoyance.

Grayson, however, doesn't look annoyed. He looks delighted. He grabs Damian's wrist and squeezes slightly, causes funny feelings in things behind Damian's ribcage without even trying, as per usual.

"It's starting!" he stage-whispers.

Damian rolls his eyes again. "Really," he says. But he doesn't pull his wrist away.

Grayson doesn't let go, either.

The first act is clearly fake. Due to his emotional duress, it takes Damian a couple of knife throws to notice it, but he does notice. Knife handles explode backwards out of the spinning board as the "thrower" hides the knives she is supposedly projecting in her cloak. Most people seem to buy it, holding their collective breath as the announcer promises that the Amazing Blue Hood will pop a balloon held between her assistant's teeth without harming him.

Grayson sits back, relaxed, beside him. He undoubtedly knows the act is a fake as well but is not fazed in the least. He laughs with the rest when the Amazing Blue Hood pretends to cut herself on one of the fake knives. His calloused thumb runs softly across Damian's pulse point.

Damian flexes and unflexes his hand, staring sightlessly at the clowns now parading around the ring.

The night feels strange. The past _year_ has felt strange.

When the elephants come out, adorned in distasteful purple and blue tassled fabric, Grayson's fingers slide up Damian's palm, and he leans over to murmur, "The one on the left is Zitka!" His smile comes right up close to Damian's ear. "She was my—"

"You've told me," Damian says stiffly.

"Huh? Told you what?"

"I'm not discussing this with you."

Grayson chuckles. "Discussing what?"

Damian chances a peek at Grayson's quizzical smile, glowing in the faint light the circus ring reflects into the stands. He looks very good. He probably does it on purpose.

Damian takes a breath and tries to relax his shoulders. "First friends," he says at last.

Grayson is quiet for a long moment before he squeezes Damian's hand and goes, "Aw, _Damian._ "

"No."

" _Aww_..."

"Force yourself to refrain from 'aw'ing."

"But—"

"My first friendship will end tonight if you don't stop," says Damian, watching the performance with an intensity that he hopes does not look forced.

The upbeat horn music accompanying the elephants' performance bounces to a cheerful end, and the two circus elephants hold out their front feet to each other and touch the tips of their trunks in a show of well-rehearsed symmetry.

Grayson releases Damian's hand with similarly practiced ease.

"Come on," he says then, getting to his feet. "I wanna show you something."

Damian squints up at him. "We'll miss the acrobats."

"You think I'd let you miss the acrobats?" Dick asks. He ruffles Damian's hair in a slow way that somehow doesn't make Damian feel like a kid at all. " _Naturally_ they would save the best for last, Wayne."

"Hm," Damian says as he stands as well. "Was that supposed to be me?"

Grayson tilts his head, hand still in Damian's hair despite that he now has to incline his arm upward to reach. "My mimicry not up to snuff?"

Damian waits, jittery, for the other shoe to drop.

"Are you _serious?"_ The portly bald man in the row behind them flares his nostrils in anger.

Damian goes rigid.

Grayson steps away.

"Go practice your dance routine someplace else, ladies!" the man continues, none too quietly. "It's my kid's first time at the goddamn circus!"

His pig-tailed daughter smiles up at them with a mouth full of blue cotton candy.

Grayson grins, apologizes and pulls Damian away before Damian can point out amidst thinly veiled threats that it is _his_ first time at the circus as well.

\----

They sneak out to the animal tent, from the mild June night outside to the whir of ventilation fans. The low lighting and musty smell give it the feeling of a barn with green fabric for a ceiling and walls.

It occurs to Damian, as Grayson does a handstand and declares himself the World's Greatest Date-tective, that perhaps he's been too obvious these past months.

For some reason it seemed much easier to act unaffected prior to his relationship with Colin. After they broke up, (amicably and mutually, which Grayson had had the gall to say he was _proud_ about,) something between Damian and his former mentor shifted, and it shifted to the extent that others began to notice.

Drake, in particular, has made several decreasingly subtle remarks regarding Damian's changes in mood, "dreamy eyes," and deficient acting skills, which makes no sense, because Damian has been pretending a _long time._ No one suspected until recently. Something has just gone wrong. Damian forgot not to hope, and now Grayson has figured it out and everything is ruined.

His curtain of plausible deniability is a swirl around a shower drain, circling farther out of his reach every time he lays eyes on Grayson's stupid face.

Perhaps Grayson thinks this is the similar to Damian's juvenile crushes on Supergirl or Cassandra, and the best way to deal with it is with a laugh. Because a joke here and there won't hurt, will let Damian know Grayson doesn't judge him, that it's normal, that Damian is normal, that even unrequited love can be funny sometimes.

Many of Grayson’s tactics to make Damian laugh don’t go over well, not least of all because they aren't actually comical, but this might just be the least funny thing he’s ever done.

" _Dick_ -tective would be a more apt description," Damian mutters under his breath.

"Huh?" Grayson hops back onto his feet, his hair in odd directions from the change in direction of gravity. He flips it back casually.

Tt.

Damian storms ahead toward the lion enclosure.

The sooner Grayson gets this prank out of his system, the sooner Damian will be back in the city with criminals whose heads he can smash into the ground.

Grayson follows behind, chatting uselessly. "When I was a kid, Haly's had a male lion—Kimba. He was notorious for tackle hugs with his trainer that looked exactly like vicious attacks. Definite crowd pleaser. Suspense, comradery, yadda, yadda..."

The lioness paces in her cage, her heavy golden legs flexing. She licks her long yellow teeth.

Damian bares his own teeth in response.

"She's pacing because she's excited to perform," Grayson says. "Well, probably more excited for the treats she gets during the performance. Kimba used to do the same thing." He gets a cloudy expression in his eyes for a long moment. Then he looks over at Damian looking at him and says, "Come on. On to the main event!"

Zitka is already stretching her wrinkled trunk out between the bars of her cage when they turn the corner past the horse stables. She must have heard Grayson's voice.

"Zitka!" Grayson shouts as his feet pick up in pace. "Long time no see!" He stops, laughing, just within her reach.

The end of her trunk moves as daintily as a fingertip when she touches his face.

"That's nasty, Zitka," Grayson says happily, scrubbing his cheek with his sleeve. "Don't wipe your nose on me! Not again. That's right. I've got a long memory too, you rogue!" He moves forward to touch her face in return, leaning his front against the bars.

Zitka's rummages her trunk around inside his jacket, then curls it around him like an embrace.

Grayson squirms in the hold. "Hey, don't get fresh, old girl! Why would I keep your treats in my back pockets?" With some difficulty, he rescues a banana from inside his jacket and holds it out.

She lets go of him immediately, retrieving the fruit with a snuffling nose that promptly curls down to her mouth. Her thin grey ears flip back and forth as she munches and sways on her feet.

"Nice priorities, there," Grayson comments. He turns. "You okay, Damian?"

Damian finally steps forward from where he had been lingering at the end of the stables, folding his arms and lifting his chin. "This man doesn't deserve your allegiance," he says to Zitka. "He owns three paisley shirts and can't sit still long enough to watch his own circus."

"Thanks for the endorsement, buddy," Grayson says, giving him a one-handed shove.

"Naturally. Grayson." Damian shoves back, a little too hard.

Grayson has to catch himself on one of the enclosure's bars, but he doesn't say anything about it, smiling instead as Damian holds out his palm for Zitka to sniff.

Zitka does for a few moments, then noses up his arm.

Damian reaches up with his other hand to stroke her trunk gently. "You may use Bat-elephant as a stage name, but you didn't hear it from me."

"I knew you two would like each other."

"But as I said before," Damian goes on as if Grayson had not spoken, "there are better humans to throw in your lot with."

"Damian..."

"He sleeps with his mouth open and snores like a freight train. I, in contrast, sleep with my mouth closed, silent, like a nobleman. I'm sure you can relate." Then he twitches and huffs with laughter when Zitka snuffles in his ear.

Unfortunately in his effort to escape her loving torture, Damian jerks sideways right into Grayson, who catches Damian by the waist, leans forward, and kisses him soundly on the mouth.

A solitary flash of amnesia strikes.

Grayson's hands are soft against his ribs through the cotton of his t-shirt.

Rewind.

Damian latches on to Grayson's left arm and has it twisted up behind his back in less than a second.

"Ow!" says Grayson unintelligently.

"Explain yourself!" Damian demands, pushing up on Grayson's elbow to give him incentive. His voice cracks, but he can't think clearly enough to feel ashamed.

"Look, ow! Damian, I'm sorry. I obviously should have known to ask first. I just thought—"

"The punishment doesn't fit the crime," Damian cuts him off, staring wide-eyed at the back of Grayson's hair. "This is unacceptable behavior."

"What are you talking about?" Grayson asks, his voice going wobbly and concerned. "Are you okay? Can you— Can I look at you, please? Or is dislocating my arm the new plan for the evening?"

"As enjoyable as that sounds..." Damian trails off and releases his hold. He takes three significant steps backward.

One, two, three.

Grayson faces him, rubbing his shoulder. "I didn't mean to scare you, Damian, honestly."

"I'm not _scared_." Damian gets the distinct impression that he has said this to Grayson before in much the same flustered fashion.

Zitka makes a low rumble of noise as if sensing the tension.

"Okay," Grayson replies, expression open. "Then what's going on?"

"I simply thought you were a better person.”

"Come again?"

"It has become clear that you have surmised my...my..." Damian groans, " _Feelings._ "

"Jeez."

"And you...I would have to be a simpleton not to realize that you have a _fixation_ on extracting laughter from my person."

Grayson looks perplexed. "And that's a deal-breaker?"

Damian clenches his fists and turns away, taking deep breaths to slow his heart rate. He feels hot and shaky all over, mind reeling to make sense of the evening's plot.

Grayson can't seem to ever come out and say anything directly where Damian is involved, but Damian can hardly blame him. He has watched himself fall over and over again for the half-articulated breadcrumbs that Grayson leaves in his wake, tripping over his own feet to catch up. Grayson's strategy isn't a bad one. It always leaves Damian three steps behind.

"Enough, Grayson," Damian says, finally. "You’re not allowed to touch me whenever you want to anymore."

Grayson makes an odd noise, but Damian does not look at him.

"You aren't allowed to make cryptic comments about my romantic relationships, or pretend nothing has changed, or invite me to your apartment three times a week."

He turns.

"And especially," he presses on, pitching his voice lower in an effort to conceal the audible tremor, "you are not allowed to mock me. Not about this."

Grayson looks lost, like maybe he wandered into the wrong tent and is speaking to the wrong genetically modified son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul.

"Why would I ask you out on a date and bring you to my childhood home to _make fun_ of you?

"This...a date?" Damian shakes his head. "Don't ask me to understand your erratic, emotionally-informed decisions. I have tried and failed."

"Yeah, apparently you have failed!" Grayson all but shouts. "What the hell, Damian? I'm not mocking you!"

"But--!" Damian points vigorously at his own mouth.

"I kissed you because I wanted to! I'm not a psychopath!"

"You never specified the nature of this outing!"

"I...Are you doing this on purpose? I specifically mentioned that it was a date. More than once."

"It doesn't count if you say it to acquire free food items."

"I took you to dinner and a show, _just_ the two of us. Is my game seriously that bad?"

Damian falters. "I wondered. Why you said I shouldn't invite Brown. I assumed you found her objectionable in some way."

Grayson pulls his hair back with his fingers and stares absently at the ground. "This is my life now."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Has—what been going on? The not date? Since five-thirty."

"Don't be deliberately ignorant."

"Fine, yeah, okay." Grayson sucks in a breath. "A while? I don't know—"

"'A while,'" Damian echoes. He surveys Grayson's mouth turned down in resignation and scoffs. "I'm sure. And what was it that caught your fancy? My nubile eleven-year-old body?"

"Oh my god."

"My childlike innocence, perhaps."

"It wasn't that long a while ago!" Grayson insists. "More like the last couple years."

Zitka reaches out and pats her trunk along his neck and shoulder.

Damian stares expectantly.

"Well, I mean, Jason says I have a type—volatile but vulnerable, no nonsense personality, borderline cruel sense of humor...He makes a lot of jokes about it. I'd say a really unreasonable amount of jokes. But what does Jason know, right? I mean, he thought that you..." He gestures at Damian and doesn't say it. Grayson is an idiot. "Tim kept saying I should put us both out of our misery and go for it, so I guess I just thought— Listen, I really am sorry that I freaked you out. I thought we were on the same page."

"Oh," says Damian.

"But clearly this has all been a big misunderstanding," Grayson sighs. "I should probably drop you back at the manor now so I can crawl into a pit of humiliation and fester for a few days—"

"Wait," says Damian, pulling out his wallet.

Grayson's expression twists. "Are you going to give me money, Damian? Because we've talked about this."

"Tipping is a courtesy," Damian replies, rummaging through the bills.

"That doesn't mean it's appropriate to tip police officers, or emergency room nurses...or Babs after she gives you advice. Or _me,_ right now. Please don't."

"I'm not, you idiot." Damian fishes a rumpled, softened notecard out from where it was folded in the depths of his wallet. He holds it out to Grayson immediately. It has been a long time since he's had to read it in order to know what it says.

Grayson examines the paper in confusion for a few moments before he visibly remembers his attempt to bond with Damian all those years ago. "But you tore all of these up," he says faintly.

Damian clears his throat. "We are on the same page."

Grayson's eyes lift. He smiles a smile that grows. "I knew it—mmfh..." He doesn't speak for quite a while and then says, "Hey, I thought we weren't doing the surprise kiss thing anymore."

Damian grins and trails his thumb down Grayson's throat, because, suddenly, astonishingly, he is allowed to do so. The violence has gone out of his hands. "It's all in the timing," he says.

Grayson laughs and pulls Damian into a hug that Zitka interrupts with a few more questionable swipes at Grayson's backside.

"Hey," Damian says to her, pointing menacingly.

"Still want to see the acrobats?" Grayson asks. His hand slides down Damian's arm to interlock their fingers.

Damian looks at their hands. " _Naturally,_ Grayson."

"Naturally." Grayson snorts. "Alright. Follow me, Romeo."

They later have to return to the animal tent when Damian realizes Grayson dropped the notecard on the floor of Zitka's cage in a fit of emotional stupidity.

Years ago, Damian had found it in the midst of his plans to repay Grayson for a perceived slight, the last card of the bunch, hidden behind all the terrible puns. Now, he returns it to its home in his pocket.

 **You're going to do great, Damian, jokes or no jokes,** it reads in purple gel pen. **New beginnings are always scary.**


End file.
